Ghost Story
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: A tale is told.


Disclaimer: these are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Ghost Story**

By L.M. Lewis

Hardcastle's Halloween parties rarely broke up before the witching hour had passed. This one was no different. But midnight having come and gone—and the guests finally having gathered up their trains, and feathers, and latex bits—all was at last quiet on the old homestead.

Quiet, yes, but untidy as hell. Mark took a long look around at the clutter: empty glasses on the mantel, peanut shells in the carpet, and someone had tripped over one of the pumpkins in the hallway. The problem was, he'd decided, that Hardcastle's judicial friends were used to being picked up after—a court reporter to handle all the evidence and a bailiff to manage everything else. Peanut shells flew below the radar for these folks.

Hardcastle himself had left his general's hat on the desk and his cummerbund trailing snakily off the seat of a chair, onto the floor. Mark snatched it up, tossed it in the hat, and made a mental note to round all the rest of the costume up in the morning to be returned to the rental shop.

In fact, he decided on the spot, it could _all_ wait until morning. It wasn't going anywhere and neither was he. He paused in his desultory survey and lifted his gaze to the window. It had been hot all day, with a hard Santa Ana blowing down off the hills behind the estate. He'd been up since early daylight and the sensible thing would be to follow Hardcastle's example and hit the sack. He nodded once sharply to himself and headed for the door, nudging the dented pumpkin to one side as he passed it.

Outside the wind tossed the tree branches about. There was an eeriness to the heat, an electrical feeling to the air. He wasn't sure exactly when and why he'd deviated from his intended course—but he found he was meandering over to the path that lead down to the beach.

"Cooler down there," he said to himself. It was, always. The Pacific currents defied the land-born winds. It wasn't until he was halfway down the steps that he saw the figure, indistinct in the shadows, standing on the beach.

The man—it was a man—was looking out to sea. He was lean but a little stooped, and now that Mark was closer his age was apparent, if only from the slightly formal nature of his clothes: an old man in a suit just slightly too large for him. It might have fit him once, but the withering of time had taken its toll.

Mark didn't recognize him. Not that he knew everyone in those parts, but this man he had never seen before.

He said, "Hello," and the man turned, slowly and with no surprise. His face was old, too, and had the sun darkness of a man who had spent his whole life out-of-doors. _A farmer_, Mark thought, and then he quickly amended that for the surroundings—_a gardener_.

"I'm Mark," he said. "I work for Hardcastle." He hooked one thumb over his shoulder, back in the direction of the estate.

"Fernando," the man said. His voice was deep and old, too.

"You live around here?" Mark asked, and then wondered that it might have sounded like the beginning of an interrogation.

The man didn't seem offended. He smiled. "Here?" he said. He looked back out toward the water, then took in a breath and let it out again. "No," he finally said, "I used to, or," he said, "my people did."

"What name?" Mark said, wondering if it would be one he'd heard. The judge sometimes talked about the old families—the Kellers and the Rindges.

The man smiled for a moment. There was a sad tilt to it, even on his weathered face.

"Chumash," he said.

Mark frowned. "You mean like the tribe?" He'd heard the judge mention them, too, but that was further back still.

"The people, yes."

"I thought they were all gone," Mark said and then felt clumsy for having said it.

"Many, yes." The man nodded. "They do not walk the land anymore, but they are not gone."

Mark blinked once at this. "You mean they're still around—like ghosts?"

The man smiled and waggled one hand. There was something entirely non-phantasmagorical about it.

Mark grinned in relief. "What do you mean, then?"

The old man touched the side of his nose with one finger. It was an utterly familiar gesture to McCormick.

"This place," he said, "'Malibu'—it means 'noisy waves'. It was ours. We came here from the islands," he gestured off to the south, "a very long time ago. Do you know how?"

"Um . . . boats?"

"Probably," the man chuckled, "but that's not how we tell it." He winked. "What kind of a story would that be? 'We built a boat and came across.' No," he shook his head, "back then we had magic. Hutash put a rainbow there, between Santa Cruz Island and the mainland, see?"

"Gotcha."

"And the people walked across."

"Piece of cake," Mark nodded.

"Oh, not really," the man shook his head sadly. "The rainbow was very high, and the people who looked down, they got dizzy and fell off."

"Mighta been better to build a boat," Mark suggested.

"Maybe . . . but when the Goddess gives you a rainbow—"

"You don't look down."

The old man nodded, looking pleased that Mark got that part of it, but then his expression became more sober. "Hutash felt bad, though, so many people falling off the rainbow."

"An attractive nuisance." Mark nodded, equally sober.

"So she saved them all, the ones who had fallen, by turning them into dolphins."

Mark smiled. "Nice touch."

The old man shrugged. "That's a goddess for you." Then he turned his face away, looking out toward the ocean again. There was a long silence and then he spoke again, half to himself. "The Spanish came, the Americans. The old gods left. So many died, and no one to turn them into dolphins." He shook his head slowly and then seemed to be studying the sand at his feet.

Mark wasn't sure what to say. "But you said they aren't all gone."

"No," the old man said, "none of them." He pointed with one finger to his grizzled, weather-beaten head, "I have them all up here."

He flashed one quick smile, the contrast striking against his leather face. "I am the last, but I am never alone."

He turned and walked away, up the beach, with the slow gait of a very old man.


End file.
